‘Yeah,’ the other man shouted. ‘Yeah. For breakfast.’
‘The Japanese were ready to surrender after the first bomb dropped on Hiroshima,’ Edward tried to reason. ‘Dropping the bomb on Nagasaki was a cruel and inhumane act against innocent civilians that served no military purpose whatsoever.’
‘Yeah? Well, it saved the lives of a million American troops,’ said the fat man.
‘That figure’s a myth,’ Edward protested. ‘Thirty thousand, maybe forty thousand at the most. And those were the estimates if there had been a full invasion. Which would have been unnecessary after Hiroshima anyway.’
‘Yeah? And how many Japs were killed in the bombings?
‘More than two hundred thousand civilians, if you include radiation poisoning.’
The fat man laughed. ‘That sounds pretty fair odds to me,’ he said looking smugly around his audience.
‘Yeah, fair odds,’ shouted Mr Property of US Marines. ‘Five of their civilians to save one of us soldiers. That’s more than fair. You tell him, Louis.’
Fat man Louis dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘What I’m trying to get across to you, mister, is that you gotta stop talking about these Japs like they’re the victims. These little bastards carried out horrific tortures. Not only against us Yanks. But against you Brits too.’
‘Oh, for Christ sake,’ Edward said. ‘I was not trying to make them victims. All I was trying to do was to humanise them. To make my readers see that dropping an atomic bomb wasn’t some abstract act happening on the other side of the world.’
‘I’ll tell you about some real acts on the other side of the world.’ It was back to Mr Property of US Marines. ‘We were in a fucking jungle out there. Mosquitoes as big as your fist. Malaria. And these Japs if they captured you. They’d boil you alive. We should have dropped more of those bombs. Wiped out the whole lotta them. Stopped them building their little cars, flooding the market, putting us out of jobs. With these tiny cars. Ain’t that right, Louis?’
Louis began to waddle forward, knocking aside a few chairs with his sheer girth. ‘Yeah. Putting us out of jobs. We should just drop a bomb on Vietnam too. That would save a lot more American lives too. Isn’t that right?’ The audience started a slow handclap. Edward wasn’t sure if this was in support or against this Louis fellow. The young store clerk approached, whispered in his ear.
‘There’s a way out back, sir. If you’ll come with me.’
Edward pulled at Miss Desai’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
As he eased himself down off the back of the stage, he felt something whizz past his head, then strike a row of books in front of him. The eggshell clung to one of the spines, releasing its viscous fluid down its length. As he watched the progress of this yellow-white slurry, he also noticed the title of the book – War and Peace. Then he heard Miss Desai push back her chair, address the audience through the feedback from the microphone.
‘I’m sorry but Mr Strathairn will be unable to sign copies of his book at this present time. But thank you for coming.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Hakone, Japan • 2003
Edward wasn’t well enough the next day to travel to Kamakura. More from a hangover than anything else. But a full twenty-four hours spent in his room sleeping, resting, bathing and the occasional thought for his new idea of a comedic novel, had done him wonders. The following day, he was up early, refreshed. The bruising and stiffness still lingered but his mind was remarkably clear. He ate a fine continental breakfast in the dining room, took a short stroll in the garden up to the waterwheel and now waited in the foyer for Sumiko to collect him in that sleek car of hers. Courtesy of Enid, who disapproved of this outing, a brand new fully-charged mobile phone bulged in his inside coat pocket like a gangster’s gun.
‘It is so good to see you up and about again, Sir Edward.’
‘Ah, Takahashi-san. Yes, thank you, I feel wonderfully revitalised this morning. There is something about these crisp autumn mornings that cheers the spirit.’
‘The drive down to the station should be particularly colourful at this time of year. And, of course, you are going to Kamakura. One of my favourite destinations. Will you be visiting the Giant Buddha? Such an excellent example of Japanese bronze-casting.’
‘It is first on our list.’
‘As I am sure you already know, Sir Edward, a tidal wave was unable to move the statue from its spot six hundred years ago. Although it did destroy the hall in which it stood. It has survived many storms and earthquakes since, including the Great Kanto Quake, when I believe it was seen to rock on its base. Apart from that brief episode, it has remained immovable.’
‘Actually, I didn’t know about the tidal wave. If I recall, the statue is quite a distance inland. I am surprised a wave could reach that far.’
‘I think it is about a mile from the shore, Sir Edward… Ah, there is Sumiko-chan. Shall I escort you to the vehicle?’
‘Thank you, but I would like to manage on my own.’
Sumiko had already stepped out of the car to greet him. She wore a fawn suede coat with matching boots and hat, all trimmed with fur.
‘I like your outfit,’ he said.
She patted her hat, made some adjustment. ‘Just some old things.’
He opened the passenger door, she took his cane and he eased into the seat. As they drove off, he turned to see Takahashi in the forecourt picking a leaf off the gravel. He tapped on the window with his cane. The hotel manager looked up, and instinctively managed a bow, even from his crouched position. He felt like telling Sumiko to stop the car so he could exit the vehicle, haul the man to his feet and embrace him. But the moment passed, the hotel disappeared out of sight, and he was left with just a hint of regret hovering at the edge of his general feeling of well-being.
‘I thought I’d drive to Odawara and we’d take the train from there,’ she said. ‘It is so much easier than crawling through traffic, don’t you think?’
He mumbled his consent, his attention drawn more to the autumn scene through the glass. Takahashi was right. The colours were mesmerising. What wondrous hues. Brown, yellow, burnt orange, copper red. A last brave hurrah from Nature’s palette before winter set in. He could almost smell the decay. But then feeling his seat belt strapped too tight, he needed to loosen the buckle. And it was too hot. He must flick these plastic vents open or roll down the window. Why was he panicking now? He could even feel his heart pick up a pace. Perhaps he was ill. The fall. The bang on the head. Or just this drive down the hill, around these continuous bends, making him nauseous.
‘Eddie-chan? Are you all right? You look pale.’
The press of a button. A mechanical whirr. And the window by his head opened. He could feel the chill cool the sweat on his brow. He captured a couple of deep breaths, placed a hand on his chest, felt the pounding ease.
‘I’m fine. Just a little… I don’t know… motion sickness perhaps.’
‘I’ll slow down. All these bends can be… Oh look, Eddie. Look over there.’
Through a sudden gap in the trees, he could see Mount Fuji in the distance, so totally dominating the horizon it was hard to believe he hadn’t seen it on his visit until now. Completely devoid of clouds, shimmering, hovering like a spaceship in the cool blue sky. Just the merest of glimpses before the peak disappeared behind the foliage.
‘You can close the window. I feel better now.’
‘Good,’ she said, as she ground down a gear. ‘The sight of our sacred mountain can be very uplifting. Autumn is the best time to see Fuji-san, of course. For the summer tourists, it is always too cloudy.’
Sumiko bought one of these disposable cameras at Kamakura station and then they caught a taxi. She made the driver take a longer route so they could pass along the seafront. The city had changed drastically. Edward could see that immediately from the myriad convenience stores, parking lots and fast-food outlets that had sprung up in his absence. The usual urban blight. The ve
nding machines offending him the most, row after row of them, armies of garish, round-the-clock robots to consumerism. But something of the old Kamakura still remained, the sacred untouchable grounds of the many temples and shrines preventing the municipal planners from completely running amok. He spotted a tori, the rust-red gateway in the shape of a giant Greek letter pi. And over there the curved tiled roof of a shrine, a narrow lane of market stalls, a wooden house peeping out from behind some concrete monstrosity. Each sighting representing a small victory to him. The taxi turned on to the coast road and he had to screw up his eyes to meet the glare of the sun off the water. Sumiko put on a pair of sunglasses. He experienced that sad, deflated feeling of a seaside town in winter. A faded postcard of closed shutters, peeling paint, empty beaches. A brace of fishing boats languishing on the sand, seaweed flapping on drying racks, giant crows foraging in wire baskets, a couple of surfers bobbing in the water, boards raised like lances. Sumiko told the driver to stop, they got out for the obligatory snapshot and then moved on.
The Great Buddha. He recalled the one photograph Jerome had shown him in his office. Sumiko standing in front of the forty-foot structure, awkwardly confined in his arm. He noted now with a certain irony that the enormous bronze statue failed to reflect one of the more important aspects of Buddhism – the one of change. So much else had moved on in this country yet the Giant Buddha had remained exactly the same. But he didn’t feel awe in the constancy of its presence. Just old.
‘Come on, Eddie. A photograph. For old time’s sake.’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, rising on his cane. ‘For old time’s sake.’
He wandered over to where she stood. To that ideal spot where the background of the Buddha presided over them in perfect symmetry. A young Japanese girl in shredded jeans and black leather jacket with the words “TOKYO CHICK” emblazoned on the back, did the honours, handling the throw-away camera with all the casual contempt of youth. He put his arm around Sumiko, and she moved in close, the fur collar of her coat tickling his chin. Click. Frozen in a different time.
She took him for lunch in a tiny, heavily timbered soba shop, which made its own buckwheat noodles on the premises. Post-war Japan had hardly touched the place. They sat in a cold, dingy corner where a paraffin stove provided the only heat. The menu was a faded piece of yellow paper pinned to the wall offering a limited choice of soba. He opted for a noodle soup, more as an additional source of heat than anything else, although Sumiko assured him the quality of the soba was renowned throughout the Kanto region. He also asked her to order a flask of warm sake. The waitress – a tiny, ancient woman with knobbly hands and fingers like dried-up pieces of ginger-root – brought two small glasses, then filled them to the brim with the hot rice wine straight out of a giant teapot that she struggled to hold steady.
The broth when it came was delicious, its saltiness balanced nicely by the slight sweetness of the sake. He watched with amusement as Sumiko in all her finery noisily slurped at her noodles. And in this dark nook where the lack of daylight could forgive the passage of time, he remembered her as she used to be. Exquisitely beautiful. Her pale moon face peering out between a curtain of straight black hair. Her eyes, lively, curious, trusting. A loving, wondrous creature.
‘We came here before,’ he said.
‘Yes. With Jerome.’
‘It’s strange I should remember that day so well.’
‘The three of us together. It felt special.’
He put his hand into his overcoat pocket, brought out the wooden puzzle box. ‘I want you to have this.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh,’ she said, bringing her fingertips to her lips to cover her surprise. ‘I remember you used to have one of these on your desk. Is it the same one?’
‘Yes. It was given to me on my first visit to Hakone. By Kobayashi-san. He was a translator at Tokyo Autos where I used to work before I met you. We were all on a company outing together. That was also the first time I came across the hotel. And do you know something else? I remembered this in the car when I saw Fuji-san again. I always thought it was you who told me that only a person who stays in Japan for a long time sees Mount Fuji uncovered by clouds. But it wasn’t. It was the tea girl at the company. She told me that on the very same trip. I even remember her name. It was Mie. How can I remember all of this when I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast?’
‘Oh, Eddie,’ she said, turning the box gently in her hands. ‘This is very sweet of you… oh wait, there is something in it.’ She shook it close to her ear. ‘I can hear something rattling.’
‘There is a secret compartment. But I can’t remember how to open it.’
‘What is inside?’
‘I don’t recall that either.’
‘Honto?’ She shook the box again. ‘Surely you must remember what you put in there. It sounds like a small stone.’
‘I don’t know. Can you open it?’
‘What? Do you think I am a magician?’ she said, laughing. ‘The next time I am in Hakone, I’ll ask at one of the tourist shops. I am sure they will have instructions for it. These things never change. Some of them go up to over sixty moves. But this one is a simple one, I am sure. Six or seven moves at most. I just can’t believe you don’t remember what’s inside.’
‘It can’t be very important.’
‘Then why hide it away?’
He shrugged.
‘You never gave me anything before,’ she said.
‘I gave you The Waterwheel.’
‘The story of a stupid panpan girl?’
‘It was a bit more than that. I just wish you had read it.’
‘I will, Eddie. I promise.’
‘There’s a copy in the hotel library.’
She slipped the box into her bag, drew out a compact, screwed up her mouth in a look at the mirror. ‘Now, where would you like to go next?’
‘I don’t care. As long as it is with you.’
‘You are impossible,’ she said, snapping shut her compact. Then, more kindly: ‘The Museum of Literature is nearby. I believe there are some manuscripts by Kawabata-sensei in its collection. I thought you might like to see them.’
‘Do you remember how Jerome and I tried to find his house for you? You sprained your ankle and we had to carry you back to the car.’
‘I felt so stupid to spoil our wonderful day. But I don’t remember where the house is. Or even if it is open to the public.’
‘I would like it very much if we try to find it.’
‘I can ask at the museum.’
‘He committed suicide. You know that, of course?’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Gassed himself. He didn’t even leave a note. He was seventy-two years old. What kind of man kills himself at the age of seventy-two?’
The Museum of Literature was at the top of quite a steep hill. He struggled with the slope, leaning on Sumiko for support, stopping often just to catch his breath and to rest his limbs.
‘It’s too much for you, Eddie. We should go back.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I can manage.’ But nevertheless, he was glad to reach the entrance gateway, to sit down on a bench in the gardens by the ticket booth. To take in the view of the sea beyond the rooftops of Kamakura. To enjoy the winter cherry blossom, the yellow leaves of the Gingko trees. To live in the breathless moment.
‘It is such a pity it is so late in the season,’ Sumiko said, bringing him his ticket. ‘The rose garden here is quite spectacular in the early summer. So many different colours. Each one with its special scent. Do you think you can manage these final steps?’
‘I have come this far, haven’t I? Onwards and upwards.’
The museum sat in its own private valley, overlooking the gardens from the top of the long flight of steps. It was a two-storey art-deco manor house with pale yellow walls and a blue-tiled roof, its frontage crowded with large windows, greedily swallowing up the sea views from every angle. At one time, it must have been a magnificent private home
. But as a museum, with its barren rooms – except for their glass exhibition cabinets – it was a cold and unwelcoming place. He let Sumiko wander off at her own pace as he hobbled from exhibit to exhibit. There was a handful of other visitors spread out around the house, but for the most part he was left alone.
He found a glass case displaying a couple of items relating to Kawabata. A black and white photograph, a simple head-shot of the frail man with his small, pointed features and remarkable swept-back mane of hair. The hair was everything. It was so thick it seemed to have sucked up all the power of its owner through its roots, leaving the rest of the man weak and fragile. The case also contained a page from the original manuscript of Snow Country, complete with edits by the author. And that was it. Here was Japan’s first recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature, yet hardly a mention compared to the other Kamakura literati honoured in the room. It had to be the stigma attached to the suicide. What else could explain this paltry shrine to such a great writer? In a Museum of Literature of all places. He peered back into the case, saw his own image reflected there, an eerie spectre between himself and the photograph of Kawabata. He felt Sumiko’s presence beside him, saw too her reflection in the glass.
‘I want to leave,’ he said.
‘I have Kawabata-sensei’s address,’ she said, inserting a folded-up piece of paper into his jacket top-pocket. ‘One of the guards told me. The house is closed to the public but we could still walk by and take a peek. It is not far.’
‘Good. We can complete that journey we started so many years ago.’
The walk back down the hill was perilous with the damp leaves underfoot and he had to use his cane just to keep from wobbling ahead of himself. Sumiko took his arm again, kept him steady on his feet.
‘What is that noise?’ she said, tugging him to a halt.
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